


To Weather the Storm

by AlyKat



Category: Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Clint’s an idiot who doesn’t listen, Coulson to the rescue, Did I mention Clint's an idiot who doesn't listen?, First Kiss, Get Together, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, SHIELD sends them to frozen BFE., light slash, pre-avengers, shared body heat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-11
Updated: 2012-12-11
Packaged: 2017-11-20 22:09:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/590173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlyKat/pseuds/AlyKat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coulson had warned him the ice wasn’t thick enough to withstand the man’s weight, but did Clint listen? Now stuck in an unsanctioned safe house, Agent Coulson must do anything and everything in his power and training to keep a hypothermic Barton from giving in to the frozen edge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Weather the Storm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [purrslink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/purrslink/gifts).



> For my darlin' Nicole who is a sucker for hurt/comfort, hypothermia stories. And even more so if it involves Clint. And who also took the time to read it over for me and give it the green-light to post!

The door to the cabin burst open, a fury of snow and frozen rain billowing into the single room of the building. It wasn’t so much of a cabin as it was an ice fishing shack. One window sat frosted over on the southeast wall, a tattered and broken looking cot barely standing along the west wall. A pot belly stove sat along the northern wall and racks for hunting and fishing gear lined the east. It wasn’t by any means spacious, though, slightly more so than the few Phil had been in those rare times he’d gone ice fishing with his uncle as a child. It was going to have to do though. They didn’t have a choice.

His arms wrapped firmly around the shivering, wet mess standing next to him, Phil Coulson moved them further into the shack, kicking the door closed behind them. The wind continued to howl, almost louder now that the door was keeping it from its attack on them. He could hear Clint’s teeth literally chattering in his skull, the archer’s body tense and rigid from shivering so hard. The dirty, fish scented water had frozen in a hard layer around his clothes, making it next to impossible for the man to move. Taking a deep breath, Coulson scanned the room quickly before carefully releasing Clint.

“Stand there for a minute. Let me see if I can get this stove started.”

“N-Now r-really isn’t the t-time to be th-thinking ‘b-bout food, b-boss.” Clint’s voice was low and weak, shaking with tremors that coursed through him. Still, despite it all, the archer was doing his best to keep his sarcasm and teasing nature up. It wouldn’t do for him to start acting concerned, after all, who really needed toes anyways? Just because he hadn’t been able to feel his for the past half hour didn’t mean anything, did it?

Blue eyes darting up from the old pot belly stove, Coulson leveled him with an unamused stare. He knew Clint was just using humor as a defense mechanism, the man was frighteningly good at doing so, but that didn’t change the fact he knew the man was just as concerned as he was at the moment. If they didn’t get Clint warmed up and fast, well, he didn’t want to think about what could happen. After all, blue and faint purple had already started to tint around the agent’s mouth, his skin steadily getting paler.

“I’m not thinking about food. I’m more concerned about getting you warmed up.” Shoving a couple more pieces of wood into the belly of the stove, Coulson dug into one of the many utility pockets his over sized down jacket held to remove a book of matches. Never let it be said he wasn’t prepared for all sorts of scenarios. Though, admittedly, he wasn’t quite equipped to be dealing with a hypothermic archer.

It didn’t take him long to get the few pieces of kindling to ignite and burn long enough to be of any use. It wasn’t going to be a very hot fire by any means, but it should be enough to keep the chill off them for awhile anyways. Standing, Phil turned his attention back to Clint, his concern rising as he realized he hadn’t heard a peep out of the man in well over a minute. Barton still stood where Coulson had left him, though his shivering had increased nearly tenfold and his grey-blue eyes were steadily becoming less and less focused. It was obvious just by looking at Clint that the man was having a difficult time standing let alone breathing.

Cursing under his breath, Phil quickly moved towards him. Hypothermia was clearly already setting in deep and it wouldn’t be long before Barton lost out to the cold grips of death. It wasn’t going to be an enjoyable night, for either of them, but if it meant ensuring that Clint stayed warm and he wasn’t radioing in for a SHIELD body bag in the morning, then he would do what needed to be done.

“Barton, talk to me.”

“…s’cold, s-sir.”

Phil frowned. Words were starting to slur. He had to move faster. Dropping to a knee, he carefully pried the knife Clint kept sheathed at his ankle free and stood back up. Slowly and gently he moved them just a bit closer to the fire; just close enough the heat from the burning wood thawed out the ice encrusted clothing still surrounding Clint’s body.

“Hold still. Need to get you out of these clothes and into a blanket. No! No, I said don’t move.” Panic flared up in him as Clint started to try and move his arms so as to undress himself. It had been quite a few years since either of them had any brush-up training for what to do in situations such as this, but Phil was fairly certain he remembered reading that clothing should be cut off in order to avoid excess movement.

“…m’not that kinna boy, C-Coulson. B-Better buy me dinner ‘fore ya’go’n get me naked…”

He couldn't help the soft snort of laughter at that. Shaking his head, Coulson took hold of one frozen cuff and, folding the fabric over the blade of the knife, gave a swift upward jerk of the wrist. The blade cut through the jacket fabric like scissors through paper and within a matter of moments the once expensive field jacket (guaranteed to withstand the harshest weather conditions, a claim Phil was going to have to have a serious discussion with R&D over once they got back) was lying in two pieces on the ground at their feet.

“I have a package of chocolate frosted Donettes in my jacket pocket. You stay with me for a while longer yet and you can have ‘em.”

A quiet hum was returned to him. No smartass remarks about his love for those silly little snacks, or the fact that the older agent is willing to share them with him. Swallowing hard, he carefully slipped the blade of the knife under the cuff of Clint’s gloves. It wasn’t until that moment that he realized the man’s fingers weren’t where they belonged. Taking hold of his hand, Phil’s own fingers gently wrapped around the fist located in the middle of the frozen piece of clothing. Maybe, if they were lucky, just maybe Clint’s fingers would be okay to move. Still holding the man’s hand, he quickly cut away the glove, relieved to see that the finger tips were still more-or-less their natural color. Repeating the action for the other gloved hand, Coulson carefully cupped both hands in his own and lifted them up towards his mouth. Rubbing and massaging to get circulation back into extremities was certainly out, but supplying warmth through warm air against skin was alright.

“…m’tired, Coulson. Can we hurry thissup, please?”

“I’m working on it. This is your own fault, you know. You should have listened to me when I said that ice wasn’t safe.” His voice is tight, struggling to keep it level and not to let his worry show through. If he reprimanded him for disobeying orders, maybe he’d be able to keep his fears at bay.

His fingers moved to gently grasp at Clint’s soaking wet sweater and T-shirt. Given how badly the man was still trembling, it was going to be difficult to cut them away without accidentally slicing into numbed skin. Focusing in on the task though, Phil steeled his nerves and made the first slice, hearing the fabric tear and pop. He quickly closed the blade against his thigh before taking hold of the two torn pieces and ripping them away.

“…y'not an ice whisperer. How’d you know…?”

“I grew up in Chicago. More importantly I grew up playing pond hockey with the neighborhood guys. I know when ice is safe to be on or not. And leave it to you to find the one thin patch in the whole damn lake.”

“S’that where you learned to be a badass? Playin’ hockey?”

Phil gave another soft chuckle as the tear reached the thick seam of shirt collars. Not able to tear through those, he gently lifted the rings of cloth up and over Clint’s head. He had to keep the man talking; had to keep him conscious. “Heh, that’s where it started. I think we can credit the Army for most of my badassary.”

“…bet’cha made a cute li’l peewee leaguer…”

“Promise not to tell the Junior agents, when we get back I’ll show you pictures. I have a few from when I played. But you need to stay with me if you want to see them. That’s an order, Agent Barton.”

“…y’bossy…”

“I mean it. You don’t stay with me here and you won’t get the chocolate Donettes or get to see my peewee hockey pictures.”

Opening the knife again, He set to work on the final pieces of clothing. A flush crossed his cheeks as he cut into the fabric of the black cargo pants Clint was so fond of, the dull side of the blade gliding over the archer’s bare skin. At least the legs had finally thawed out enough to no longer be caked in layers of ice. For a while there Coulson was almost certain they’d be able to stand the pants up on their own there was so much ice on them. The lower the knife move down Clint’s left leg, the move skin was revealed to him, the more Phil came to a startling discovery. Knife paused just above the man’s kneecap, Coulson’s hand quickly came up to examine where he’d just cut. Only the fabric of the cargo pants could be found. Cargo pants against bare skin.

Eyes darting up, a myriad of emotions flashed through his eyes: surprise, horror, disbelief, disapproval, fear, and maybe possibly a hint of curiosity. Forcing himself to take a deep breath, he quickly finished cutting the first pant leg before moving for the second. As the two pieces of fabric fell from around Clint’s waist, Coulson’s cheeks flared up all the more.

“Jesus Christ, Barton! You come to the coldest place in the contiguous United States, commando? How are you…how…?”

“C-Carnie…l-life. T-Think we c-could be b-bothered to…to…b-buy…”

A frown creased across Coulson’s face. Of course. The circus. It made sense that Clint would be commando, and probably had gone free-for-all for the majority of his life now. Standing back up, his eyes definitely not glancing over the man’s groin area (…okay, maybe a quick glance. Hey! He had to make sure Clint wasn’t going to need a sex change because of this!), Phil moved for the thick blanket that was folded at the foot end of the cot. God only knew when the last time it was washed, but it was thick and warm and large enough to practically wrap Clint up in twice and still have a bit to spare.

It was frightening, truly frightening, to see just how pale Clint had become save for the tint of blue to his lips. The man’s body was quickly drawing blood away from extremities in order to preserve the major internal organs. Thinking for a moment as he wrapped the blanket up and around the archer’s head, leaving only his face exposed, he knew what he really should do; it’s really the best way to ensure that his agent’s—his friend’s—body temperature started to increase again. Was it an option either of them was going to enjoy? Well, he couldn’t speak for Barton—the man was notorious for flirting with anything that had a pulse, whether he was meaning to be serious or not—but for himself? If the circumstances were different, if maybe dinner had been bought for the man, maybe even some drinks and quiet conversation (yes, it was possible to have a quiet conversation with Clint Barton) then yes, he would enjoy it. For now though, Coulson was doing everything in his power not to think about what he was about to do too much.

Taking hold of Clint’s elbow, he gently guided him back to the cot. It really didn’t look steady enough to hold one person, let alone two, but he had to try. He held his breath and said a quick prayer that the tiny bed would hold as he carefully maneuvered Clint onto it, cautiously getting him onto his back and against the wall. The walls, thank God, were at least insulated so he didn’t have to worry so much about the chill coming through. Quickly, he moved to unlace and remove the soaking shoes and socks that were keeping Clint’s feet like size 11 ice cubes. He still wasn’t entirely sure how they’d go about getting the archer to whatever transport came to their rescue once the storm died down, with any luck there would be a stretcher to carry him out on so they didn’t have to worry about him stepping barefoot out into the snow again.

Straightening, Phil quickly tugged his slightly overstuffed jacket off and tucked it around Clint’s feet; it was still warm from being on his body so hopefully it would do some good. He pulled his wool knit cap off next, shifting the blanket just enough that he was able to put it over top of Clint’s wet head before pulling the blanket back up around to frame his face. Without lifting his eyes to meet Barton’s, Phil’s fingers deftly fell to his own sweater and in one swift motion the simple black wool shirt and the grey Body Armor long sleeved shirt under it came off his body and fell to the floor next to the bed—his short, perfectly combed hair sticking up in a rather adorably debauched fashion. He didn’t want to think about the startled gasp he heard come from Clint’s mouth, or about the way he could feel suddenly wide, grey-blue eyes boring into him as he quickly and (mostly) shamelessly stripped himself out of his blue jeans (because yes, he does own jeans and will wear them when the mission calls for them) until he was wearing nothing more than he entered the world with. He had nothing to be ashamed of; he was still in very good shape for a man his age and his occupation. No, he didn’t have the defined arms, pectorals or abs like Clint had, but he wasn’t sporting any extra, unnecessary pounds around the middle either.

Still, he could feel warm pink seeping up to the tips of his ears as he quickly moved to crawl under the blanket with Clint. The minute he felt near frozen skin slide against his, he quickly had to stamp down on the rush of blood heading south. It wouldn’t do any good to let on that he really wasn’t as put out about this as he wished he could make it seem. Clint would no doubt tease and harass him endlessly about suddenly springing to attention like that; even in the state he was currently in.

“…w-what happen’d to…d-donettes? You…j-just wanted t-to get me n-naked. Adm-mit it.”

Phil had to force back a heavy sigh as he shook his head, moving and twisting himself around so that he could pull Clint against him as best that he could without lying on top of him or falling off the edge of the cot.

“Shut up, Barton. I’m not about to let you die of hypothermia.”

“Aw b-boss…d-didn’t know you c-cared…”

His mind focused in on holding the man close, pressing as much of his skin up against Clint’s as possible. His left arm slipped under the archer’s head, hand flattening against the back of his neck and gently pulling him until Clint’s face was resting against his bare chest, chin setting protectively atop his head. His right hand glided over the man’s left arm, drawing it in to press between their bodies while his hand smoothed over the space between Clint’s shoulder blades. He could still feel Clint shivering against him, his breathing stuttered against his chest. Gathering up what little courage and shamelessness he had left, Phil nudged his knee between Clint’s legs, biting at his lower lip as he felt the man’s groin settle into the crease where leg met hip. He had to keep reminding himself this was the best way to warm the archer back up. Shared body heat, warmth underneath his arms (sadly there was nothing that could be done about that) and warmth against the groin area were usually the best ways to rewarm a person.

“Ya k-know if…if ya w-wanted to get me b-between the sh-sheets…all…all you h-had to do was a-ask. F-fuck! Y-you are r-really f-fucking warm…” Clint’s voice was still trembling and low, but it was obvious that the specialist was still trying to keep his spirits up about the situation they were in and Phil wasn’t sure whether to be relieved by that, or aggravated. He wanted to be aggravated that Barton wasn’t taking this situation more seriously, but the moment that icicle nose pressed to the soft dip of skin between his collarbones and frozen lips brushed over his sternum, all thoughts of any kind went out the window. The archer was wiggling himself closer, leeching as much body heat off Coulson as he possibly could.

“Damnit, Barton…quit moving around.” Phil gritted through clenched teeth, eyes clamped shut as he thought every unsexy thought he could come up with in order to keep himself down, no matter how painful it was. “You’re not warm enough to be moving around so much. Excessive moving can cause cardiac arrest. You really ready to die that way?”

He could feel Clint’s lips against his chest; could feel the way they seemed to be turning up at the corners into what he was sure to be one of the man’s more devastating flirty smirks. He knew if he dared a glance to confirm it though, it’d be all over for him.

“Ya m-mean…die n-naked c-curled up in y-your arms? S-Sir, p-pretty sure I w-would die a v-very ha-happy man…”

Something tightened in Phil’s chest at those words. He wanted to believe that Clint was serious and knew what he was saying, but the rational side to his brain wouldn’t allow it. It was just Clint being Clint again, it had to be. Plus, the man was suffering from moderate hypothermia, confusion was only natural. So even if Clint wasn’t just flirting for the sake of flirting, it was quite possible the archer’s mental process had been compromised and he no longer knew what he was saying.

“That’s enough, Agent. I’m sure we can find something else to talk about in order to keep you awake.”

For a brief moment he swore he felt Clint tense in his arms, just a slight movement, but still noticeable enough. The fact the man’s head moved back away from Phil’s chest just enough to no longer be touching it was enough to make his already tight chest twist all the tighter, as if the loss of that closeness physically hurt him to no end.

“…f-fine. Wh-who was the f-first p-person you e-ever kissed?”

“Barton, I really don’t think—“

“Na-Nathan Kozlowski. T-Twelve ye-years old. Day b-before B-Barne-ey and I l-left for the cir-circus. You-your turn.”

“That’s really not anyone’s busin—“

“C’mon, b-boss...s’not go-gonna kill ya...”

“Why do you even want to know something like that? It’s not something that--”

“…d-damn it, C-Coulson! I…am…f-fucking fr-freezing to d-death, o-k-kay? I c-can’t fucking st-stop s-shivering. Ca-Can’t feel my t-toes. An’ I…am…s-scared o-out of my f-fucking mi-mind right n-now. S-So m-make up a G-Godd-damn name an’ h-humor m-me, a-alright?”

Phil stayed quiet for a moment, honestly surprised to hear Clint admit to being scared. After everything to two of them had been through together, all the missions gone wrong and shoot outs from hell that they barely escaped from, he had never heard Clint say he was scared. For some reason, Coulson had always assumed fear was one of those emotions that had never shown its face to Barton. Or if it had, he’d overcome it with an easy smile, a flip of the middle finger, and a joke about how ridiculous it was to be scared of anything.

Swallowing hard, Phil tilted his head a bit so he could look to make sure Clint’s feet were still covered up before taking a deep breath. Right hand sliding slowly and gently up and down the man’s back, he carefully shifted himself once again.

“Bring your knees up, very slowly. Try to tuck your feet in behind my knees if you can.” The authority tone gone from his voice, replaced instead with a quiet concern and understanding, Phil bent his own legs slightly to create a cradle of sorts in which Clint could wedge his still painfully cold feet into. Feeling the toes connect with the soft skin behind his knees, he forced himself not to cringe before carefully folding his knees up just a bit more. Silently he hoped no one tried to surprise attack them, because they’d be horribly doomed. A tangled mess of naked limbs under a mess of blanket and jacket. Not only would they be horribly doomed, it would be one hell of an embarrassing way to go out.

After another moment of silence, Phil’s head shifted, his cheek resting over the place his chin had been atop Clint’s knit cap covered head. Wetting his wind and cold chapped lips, he sighed.

“Logan Matthis. Seventeen years old. Night our team won the division championship. First time in team history. First time I had to awkwardly try to explain away a black eye after he clocked me.”

Fingers gently massaging the warming skin on Clint’s neck, Phil moved his hand a bit higher until his finger tips could lightly toy with the hair peeking out from under the hat. The short strands were just as soft as they had always looked to be and Phil soon found himself silently wondering what it would feel like to be able to sink his fingers into the short crop and clutch it gently in his fist. Taking a breath at Barton’s subtle head nod of acknowledgement, he turned his face ever so slightly, letting his lips press into the wool hat.

“…and I’m worried too.” It’s a quiet confession, one he’s not even really sure if the other man heard or not. Turning to rest his cheek back on Clint’s head, he couldn’t help give another small sigh.

“Alright…let’s keep you talking so you stay awake until you warm back up again.”

~*~*~*~*~

He didn’t know when it happened, somewhere between a quiet discussion of what position he played in hockey and what the dumbest thing Clint had ever done while in the circus if he had to take a guess, but Coulson had found himself comfortably warm and strangely content lying on the cramped cot skin-to-skin with Clint. So much so that he didn’t even realize they (he?) had fallen asleep. It wasn’t until he felt warm breath against his lips, the gentle brush of a nose nuzzling against his before the warm breath drew closer until it was warm lips covering his that he realized there was a chunk of time he had no memory for.

The kiss was barely anything more than a flutter of lips and warm breaths, as if Clint were afraid he’d break Coulson or end whatever dream they were collectively having if he pressed any harder. His eyes slowly blinking open, Phil laid perfectly still as Clint moved back enough to look the older man in the eyes, a half smirk tugging at his lips. It took him almost a full 30 seconds to realize the blue tint had finally faded from the archer’s lips, his skin color slowly returning to a semi-healthier shade of peach. A playful light had returned to those blue-greys that told Coulson they had officially made it out of the woods.

Blinking owlishly at Clint, Phil could do nothing but stare, his brain still processing the fact that yes, he was just kissed by the archer, and no, it hadn’t been a dream.

“You’re cute when you’re asleep, ya know that? Especially with bed head.” The stutter and tremor was gone from Clint’s voice at long last, the shivering obviously having taken its leave as well.

“You…why did you…”

“Your lips looked cold. Just tryin’ to warm ‘em up for you, Sir.” It was a matter-of-fact kind of tone to Clint’s voice, but Phil swore he heard just a hint of amusement underlying it as Clint stiffly moved to reach his hand out and pull the blanket up over Phil’s head just a bit.

“Tryin’ to save me from freezing to death, your dumbass didn’t think about keeping yourself warm. I’m touched, Boss.”

The shack was quiet, save for the sounds of their breathing and the gentle snaps and pops of logs still trying to burn in the tiny pot belly stove. The wind outside had died down, allowing a gentle and calming snow to fall lightly around them. There would be people coming in search of them soon; S.H.I.E.L.D agents bundled in more layers than probably necessary, armed with thermal blankets and hopefully clean, dry clothes. The paperwork for this assignment was going to be a mixture of nightmares and comedy, and Accounting was going to have a field day with why they needed to replace clothing that had been literally cut and torn from their ace marksman’s body. No doubt medical was going to be an experience as well, pushing warm fluids on them and possibly even warm saline into Barton to warm the man’s blood further.

Phil felt a shiver run through him, though he was positive it wasn’t due to a chill in the air. The warmth of two bodies pressed together under a dirty old blanket, Clint’s voice low and sweet settling between them, the feel of a partial hardness that was not his own pressing to his hip, the knowing smirk and glittering humor in shining eyes; those were the causes of his shivers. The still slightly chilled, calloused hand pressed gently to his cheek as Clint moved in to brush lips over his own again. They were going to have to have a long talk once they were released from medical; discuss the happenings of the past few hours and what seemed to be building between them at an almost frightening pace.

As another chill trickled down his spine when Clint’s mouth pressed just a bit harder to his own, Phil decided worrying about paperwork, medical, and possibly awkward conversations could wait for later. Barton seemed determined to ensure that Coulson kept warm and if a few chills and shivers meant he got to stay under that blanket and have kisses to warm him by? Well, then it was definitely the best way to ensure that their body temperatures stayed up.

**Author's Note:**

> It's always good when you can incorporate your own personal experiences into a story. The bit about Clint's clothes literally freezing solid, can and has happened. Believe me, I know. Falling into water and then having to hike back through insane amounts of snow is never a good time. Having to explain to your best friend's mom why your jeans are able to stand up all on their own until they've thawed out isn't exactly a good time either, but makes for some amusing memories later in life! 
> 
> Anyways, hope you enjoyed! I'm not opposed to comments! xD *hinthint*


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